


men compared to rocks and mountains

by breadpoetsociety



Category: South Park
Genre: Alternate Universe, Fancy Ass Coats and Shit, M/M, Regency Romance, So Wrong It's Right, it's lit, pride and prejudice au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-23
Updated: 2017-12-23
Packaged: 2019-02-18 21:38:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,678
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13109019
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/breadpoetsociety/pseuds/breadpoetsociety
Summary: “Why on earth did you just agree to dance with Mr. Tucker?” Butters was almost laughing as he asked, the situation so ridiculous. Even Tweek, with panic imminent, couldn’t help the grin that lit up their corner of the ballroom.“I have no idea!” Tweek raised his hands to tug at his hair before suddenly remembering the careful styling he had done earlier. He tapped his fingers nervously against his palms and tried to keep his voice quiet.“I s-said I never would! Not even for h-half of Derbyshire!”“But would you marry him for it?” Butters offered with a small smile, extending the hand of levity.“Well, I’d certainly give it a little more thought.” Tweek raised his brows, his expression mocking one of consideration, and Butters threw his hands over his mouth as though to suppress his giggles. “B-But it would be awfully inconvenient, s-since I swore to hate him for all eternity.”





	men compared to rocks and mountains

**Author's Note:**

> tweek is a firecracker like lizzie. craig is an awkward turtle like darcy. was i really supposed to not write this crossover?
> 
> (answer: no, you weren’t)
> 
> this one is [bwyn’s](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bwyn/pseuds/bwyn) fault too we watched pride and prejudice (2005) together and i couldnt sleep for thinking of it as a creek au so. i love you wynnie and also im in pain.

It is a truth universally acknowledged that a single man in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a wife.

(Or, in many cases, a husband).

However little known the feelings or views of such a man on his first entering a neighborhood, this truth is so well-fixed on the minds of the surrounding families that he is considered the rightful property of their children.

(Or, in this case, their friends).

“Tweek!” A bright voice blew in open windows along with the heavy summer breeze, and a body clad in green muslin burst through the front door of Longbourn. The woman, blonde and ruddy and striking, ran a familiar path through the house until finally finding her friends. Her breath was shallow, from excitement or exertion, they couldn't tell: “Butters! Tweek! Have you heard the news!”

It was half-eleven, according to the clock on the mantle, but based on the men’s messy blond mops they were only just out of bed. Tweek was nibbling on the edge of toast and Butters had been lazily reading a newspaper, weeks old by now. And they both stared up at Bebe, wide eyes answering “no.”

“Well.” Bebe straightened her skirt with a grin, and sat at the end of the grand wooden table. She reached over to steal a sip of Butters’ tea. “Netherfield Park is let at last!”

“How thrilling.” Tweek mumbled through his toast. A serving girl entered to refill his coffee— much preferable to the saccharine leaf water that Bebe and Butters always seemed to prefer. Bebe laughed, good-natured as ever, and Butters brightened.

“How exciting!” He leaned over his plate, crumbs catching on the ties of his sleepshirt.

“Don’t you want to know who’s taking it?” Bebe teased. The serving girl circled around, leaving a cup of tea for the blonde and clearing Butters’ space before returning to the kitchen.

Tweek, proprietor of Longbourn, only had her and her mother, a cook, work mornings now. No need to waste the money on them for full days— as long as there was enough coffee brewed, he was happy.

“You want to tell me.” Tweek replied with a familiar, playful grin. “So I have no objection to hearing it.”

“Well.” And Bebe sat back now, comfortable in the worn wooden chair. Her hands waved wildly around her as she illustrated the story. “Wendy told me that she had heard from Stan, who was told by Kyle, that a young man of a large fortune will be living there before Michaelmas. Some of his servants will even be there by next week!”

“What’s his name?” Butters was leaning his chin against his knuckles now, sleeves falling to reveal pale skin.

“Donovan.” Bebe replied, twisting a loose lock of her light hair around her fingers. All three in the room were blonde, but Butters was so blond to be almost platinum; Tweek’s was like spun sunshine; so Bebe’s was the most golden of the three. Her voice turned dreamy and her eyes, distant. “Won’t that be a wonderful last name?”

Tweek laughed but his eyes still rolled: “I take it he’s single.”

“And with four or five thousand a year!” Bebe excitedly banged against the table, bunching the end of the lacy tablecloth under her hands. “What a wonderful thing for us!”

“How so?” Tweek did his best at feigning ignorance, but Bebe had known him too long, regardless, to not be able to tell when he’s teasing. Butters was a little more gullible— but too kind for Tweek to ever torment him.

“Don’t be tiresome.” As Tweek expected, Bebe shot back with another snarking remark. Her voice was equal parts playful and resolute. “You must know that I am thinking of marrying him.”

“And you think that’s his design in living here?” Butters had gotten up by now, his tea cold. He circled behind Bebe, patting her head fondly. She met his eyes and smiled charmingly.   
  
“Design? Oh, of course not.” The fair girl replied with her candid honesty. Her head cocked in a thoughtful manner, familiar eyes falling first on Butters and then Tweek. “But it’s very likely he’ll fall in love with _one_ of us, at least.”

The three laugh, Tweek’s head falling back to hit the back of his chair. The wood had been notched from use, from being banged against too many times and more often from anxiety than laughter.

“Well, we’ll have to meet him soon, then.” Butters replied through his giggles.

“Well, that’s the best part. He’ll be at a ball soon.” And for Tweek, Bebe’s own designs became as clear as the sunlight streaming through their thin curtains and onto the wooden floor. His smile fell as her sentence continued. “The one _tomorrow_ , that you thought you were too special to go to.”

She leaned forward, dragging Butters with her by the collar of his shirt, and though Bebe’s words were for both of them, Tweek could feel them cling to him: “Well, have you changed your mind?”

Tweek’s blue eyes immediately shot to Butters’— icier than Mr. Tweak’s, and one was faded, softly scarred from an accident in childhood. But both were staring at him pleadingly. Tweek felt familiar dread bubble in his stomach. It’s not that he _disliked_ balls, but it just so happened that most people that went to balls disliked him.

With his home-mended clothes and preference for coffee and those nervous tics that always seemed to flare up in public— Tweek never felt that he was meant for high society, no matter what gentry he was born into or what estates he held.

His estate was as shabby as he was, anyway.

And, god— regardless of feeling like he belonged, all the things that can _happen_ at balls? Someone’s dress could so easily catch fire with all the candles lying about willy-nilly— not to mention the wide bowls of punch that just anyone could pour anything into— or how just any stranger could wander in, and what if one of them was a royal spy sent to murder the hostess— or murder Butters— or murder Tweek—

His mind admitted, though, as he took steadying breath, that this Donovan was intriguing. And though Butters usually acquiesced to Tweek’s desire to stay in, this time Tweek wasn’t sure he wanted to make him.

“Well.” Tweek said with a conceding sigh, and he nervously nodded his consent. “I suppose I have to, now.”

Bebe shrieked and Tweek did his best not to wince at her expression of excitement. He hadn’t seen such a bright smile on her face in a long time, though. It seemed a small sacrifice to make for a dear friend’s happiness.

And besides, Butters could always scout for any royal spies.

“Come then!” Bebe was awhirl without warming, grabbing Tweek by the upper arm and dragging him up the stairs. The whole estate was familiar to her, a second home since she was a girl, and easily she found Tweek’s room. Butters’ footsteps followed them. “I brought a new muslin I want to see on you, Tweekers. A deep green. It would make a lovely vest I think.”

Now: Tweek had never experienced a hurricane before, and had only read about it once years ago as related to the Caribbean colonies. He felt much more experienced with the term after this afternoon.

Bebe left Longbourn after pinning a light fabric around Tweek’s thin form and promising that the next evening he’ll look like a prince. Butters kept him distracted, though, with perusing their closets for just the perfect outfits.

They weren’t wealthy by any means— Longbourn only made Tweek two thousand a year, and Butters parents send him perhaps five hundred pounds. But before they had died, Richard and Catherine Tweak had instilled in him one thing: looking rich is more important than being rich.

Tweek had never cared much for that thought process, and neither did Butters for that matter. But it did leave them to have a sizable closet for events such as tomorrow’s. Tweek even found himself enjoying playing dress-up that day, as Butters’ excitement was more than infectious.  

Night fell before Tweek even realized, and the moon shone a diamond pattern on his bedroom floor. Though he had long retired to his own room, Tweek could hear Butters pacing the room over, muttering: “Nice to meet you. I’m L-Leopold Stotch. It’s a pleasure to meet you. Leopold Stotch.”

When Tweek started to feel the thorns of anxiety scratching at his ankles and causing him to bleed, he treated Butters’ mumblings as a lullaby, and forced himself to sleep.

The sun greeted Tweek, who had been waiting hours for her. His estate, large as it felt, was an echo chamber. He could hear the hiss of the stove, the murmurs of the servants below and Butters stirring next door. It was a contrast to the silence of the morning, and not particularly welcome to Tweek’s already frazzled mind.

Three hours of sleep followed by a panic attack was enough to remind him why balls were a bad idea. They were just so much pressure.

He knew Butters would want to start getting ready for the ball as soon as the wild-haired blond appeared downstairs— but, god, he wasn’t ready to admit that the night was going to be real. His bedroom was on the second floor, but with the help of a bedsheet, it wasn’t too far of a leap.

Walking had been Tweek’s respite since childhood. The air of the fields surrounding Longbourn were sweet as peaches, sharp as lemon, warm as basil. The blond could find himself circling for hours and hours, focusing on the call of crows or the warmth of the sun on his bare arms.

Truly, he was very fond of walking.

“Tonight will be fine.” Tweek found himself muttering, his tongue revealing the worry that his mind tried to avoid. “You w-will go, you will have fun, and you will come home. It will be f-fine.”

He chanted to himself as he walked home, certain that if anyone came across him they would be horrified, and doubly certain that he wouldn’t see a soul. It’s several minutes before he comes off the crest of a hill. The morning fog is gone and in its place: a clear view of Longbourn.

The estate is small compared to others, but Tweek is proud to call it home. Chickens run freely around the eggshell-white walls and mahogany door, welcoming him back into its sun-warmed rooms. Butters is waiting at the table, reading the same newspaper from yesterday. But today, as soon as he saw Tweek enter the room, he’s up in a flash and dragging him to the bath.

“Where’ve you been all day!” Butters chided, but his voice held no bite, only excitement. “We only have six hours before we’re to be at the ball! Bebe will be here to meet us soon!"

“Don’t you mean Barbara?” Tweek teased. He dragged his heels as his friend pushed him towards the washroom, dreading the feeling of hair that never seemed to dry.

“And I’m Leopold tonight, don’t you forget it.” Butters ribbed right back, and then he left Tweek to get ready.

Tweek never took long washing himself, though tonight something called him to pay more attention to clear the dirt from his fingers and the tangles from his hair. After a moment of thought, his hands found Butters’ pomade, and styled his wild locks back into something more manageable, more presentable.  

The blond snuck his way back to his bedroom, and he could hear Butters in his own. Within minutes, he had frocked himself in his familiar boots and then less-familiar breeches. Atop his dress shirt, the new green vest. Bebe must have dropped it off while he was walking. And to top it all off Tweek donned his best coat. It was a deeper green than the vest, like moss at midnight.

He didn’t feel as if he were dressing for Donovan, but there was an intense anxiety growing within him— he didn’t know why, but he _had_ to look nice. So he tramped out of his room and into Butters with little fanfare.

“W-well?” Tweek extended his arms, pulling his bottom lip between his teeth as he anticipated Butters’ judgement. His bright-eyed friend just grinned wider, and clasped his hands together.

“Oh!” Butters exclaimed, forgetting his own vest to run over and rebutton some on Tweek’s ivy-colored one. He had skipped one near the bottom— fine for every day, but Butters thought he looked too handsome to let it be tonight. As he worked, he grinned up at his friend: “If every man doesn’t fall head-over-heels for you t’night, Tweek, then I’m no judge of beauty!”

“Or of men.” Tweek muttered, silently cursing his twitching hands and praying they would behave that night. He knew they wouldn’t but he still _wished_.

Butters stood now, brushing Tweek’s shoulders with gentle hands. “Nah. They’re awful simple.”

It seemed ages before Butters was ready, and Tweek was halfway through his fourth piece of toast-and-jam when Bebe knocked on the Longbourn door and let herself in. Tweek had to stop himself from gasping.

Her gown was cut low enough to reveal a pale collarbone, and billowed out at her full waist. The fabric was simple muslin, but colored a ruby-red that Tweek swore even the King himself would envy. He hoped his smile sufficed as welcome. It seemed to.

Asinine conversation followed, Tweek hardly paying attention. His breathing was already erratic and it was all he could do to stay calm as Butters and Bebe filled the estate with excitement. It was dusk by the time they were leaving, and Tweek was thrilled to have another opportunity to walk.

The town of Southerland Park was close to Longbourn, perhaps half an hour’s walk if one meandered. But the air infected by night still calmed Tweek so by the time they reached the cobblestoned town his smiles were authentic again.

Even from a distance, he could see the forms of friends, and Butters called out to them: “Good evening, fellas!”

Wendy was the first to call back a pleasant hello, and in the sun’s setting light he could see Stan and Kyle behind her. Perhaps this ball wouldn’t be so bad, Tweek thought to himself. It seemed half of its population would be his friends, anyway.

A short walk, bootheels clacking on stone before they’re rushing up the steps of a Southerland Park home and into a grand ballroom, awash with candlelight and smelling of rosebud and wine.

He was ushered in quickly by Bebe and Wendy, practically hiding behind the latter’s panniers. Within minutes, the blond found himself pressed between Butters and Kyle, laughing about Stan’s most recent faux pas within his faux-courtship. He never envied Stan or Wendy— or Kyle, for that matter. Drama was best kept away from Tweek. It was too much _pressure_.

His eyes, water-blue, trailed around the room as Kyle kept talking. A crowd had gathered near the entrance, and Tweek’s heart jumped when he remembered there was supposed to be a guest of honor.

“Do you think that’s them?” He muttered to Butters, throwing a nod to where his eyes had not strayed. Butters hummed a response, and Tweek pressed on to his toes in the hopes of seeing better.

Across the room, the group of the hour had indeed arrived. The butler announced their names, drowned out by the stomps of dancing and lively violin: Mr. Clyde Donovan, flanked by Sir Token Black, and Mr. Craig Tucker.

The three practically froze in the doorway, drowned by heady scent of wine and lamp oil and the wild sight of dancing technicolor. Clyde couldn’t help the grin that grows on his face, especially when he’s drawn to a bright, blonde woman in an even brighter red.

“We’re a long way from Grosvenor Square, aren’t we, gentlemen?” Mr. Black turned to his friends, joke low and paired with raised brows.

“I find it very charming.” The stocky Donovan replied, still staring openly at the woman across the room. With a roll of his eyes, Token turned to their tallest cohort— only to find his green pair locked on someone, also. Mr. Black followed Tucker’s gaze to find the object of his immediate interest, and the trail led to a wild-eyed blond.

“A long way, indeed.” Token finished with a chuckle, and led his gaping friends into the thrill of the country ball.

Tweek’s nose itched. He could feel attention on him— and _only_ him, not on his wide group of friends, or perhaps on the elegant sconce above them. He tried to force his body to stay still, but his hands shook and he felt his head twitch and a groan escaped his lips.

Butters caught his eye, but it was Wendy who took immediate action. With a gracious smile and the twirl of her wide skirt, Wendy had Tweek wheeled away from the group, and she settled with him against one of the emptier walls. This ball was quite small, and not exceptionally formal, held in one of the family homes of Southerland Park.

Tweek couldn’t remember whose home, really, but he appreciated how congenial the place was. As far as balls go, this was one easy to relax at— especially when he wasn’t being forced to dance.

“So.” Tweek spoke up after he felt his breath return to him, voice straining to be heard over bright violins. “W-which one is D-Donovan?”

Wendy looked up from staring at dancers and her dark eyes scanned the crowd. Finally, she found them: her slender, gloved hand pointed across the room to find Donovan’s red brocade. “On the right. The left is Mr. Black, practically a brother.”

“A-and the grumpy one?” Tweek continued to question, smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. His hand reached to Wendy’s head, tucking a loose strand of hair back into her intricate upsweep.

A nod and an answer was his thanks: “His dearest friend, Mr. Tucker.”

Tweek studied the man for another moment. His expression remained unchanged even as his two friends spoke animatedly around him— not quite a scowl, not quite a frown. Just blank. Tweek’s brow furrowed. “He looks thrilled to be here.”

“He doesn’t have to be. He has ten thousand a year, and owns half of Derbyshire.” Wendy murmured back conspiratorially. She murmured a thanks to a passing servant and pressed a cold mug of punch into Tweek’s hands. The carved crystal felt as if it were stabbing his clammy palms.

Tweek couldn’t pull his eyes away from the man. Even in the room of glinting glass and shimmering satin, something about Mr. Craig Tucker was enthralling. His countenance was beyond reproach. It was as though he were marble, carved into the perfect gentleman and dressed with fabric the color of a warm night’s sky. It would be easy to call the man handsome— but the frown that seemed sculpted into his face troubled the definition.

Even so distracted, in the corner of his eye, Tweek could see bright red— Bebe’s hand, frantically waving him over, and with a nervous sheen to her face. She had been standing with Donovan and his cohorts the whole time, with only Butters by her side.

“Shall we?” Tweek turned to the dark-haired woman behind him, and jerked his head towards where Bebe was standing. Without even a nod, Wendy was downing her punch and winding her way through the crowded ballroom. Tweek stuck behind, making sure to steer clear of any open flame.

Before they even made it into the circle, Tweek could already hear Bebe’s voice drifting over and introducing them. “You met Mr. Leopold Stotch, and here are my other dear friends. Miss Wendy Testaburger, and Mr. Tweek Tweak of Longbourn.”

“Delighted.” The man in the center of the ring was jolly, broad and brawny. It seemed that a smile hadn’t left his face since he entered the ballroom. He extended a hand and Tweek hoped his shake was up to snuff. “I’m Clyde Donovan.”

He continued, with an energy infectious and yet, calming: “And may I introduce my friends, Sir Token Black, Viscount Cranborne.”

The black man to Donovan’s right bowed. Every movement was regal yet not rigid— he seemed perfectly at ease, and pleasant to boot. But the tallest of the three was stiff and frowning, even as Clyde presented him: “And this is Mr. Craig Tucker, of Pemberley in Derbyshire.”

Tucker’s bow was austere and wooden, and when he rose Tweek was shocked to find his icy green eyes intensely staring back at him. His nose itched again. Tweek offered what he hoped was a smile, but the dark-haired man only glared back.

The way the Tucker was staring at him frayed Tweek’s nerves further, as though his stare was a thorn, snagging on the fabric of Tweek’s mood. But he still tried to shake it off. He had as much right to have a good time here tonight, Tweek reminded himself with a steadying inhale.

And besides, he could tell Bebe liked Donovan— so he turned to the man with the shaggy brown hair.

“H-How do you like H-Hertfordshire, Mr. Donovan?” Tweek could feel a blush under his collar and he tried to resist the urge to bite off his tongue. At least his nerves seemed to be content with only embarrassing him through his stutter.

In the corner of his eye, he could see Bebe beaming at him, and felt her warm hand rub his wrist soothingly, catching on the thick fabric of his coat. Her smile soon turned to Mr. Donovan, flushed and smiling as he answered: “I like it very much! I’ve just come from seeing Netherfield again today. A true delight, like her county.”

“Its library.” The blond man caught everyone’s attention again, and as he spoke, Tweek’s head twitched nervously towards his shoulder. His voice faded, barely, but he forced on: “I’ve h-heard it’s one of— one of the fin-finest in the c-country.”

Blessedly, Donovan doesn’t seemed fazed by Tweek’s nervous countenance. He opens his mouth to answer, eyes warm, but Mr. Black cut him off with a playful nod and the cross of his arms.

“It is.” The man said, regality dripping off of every word. Yet his voice was warm and welcoming— like a massive fire in a castle’s hall. “And it should fill Donovan with guilt. As it is, we’re not even certain he can read.”

A blush appeared around Clyde’s collar but Bebe’s kind laugh drew a chuckle out of the man. Staring at her, speaking only to her, Clyde answered with a humble nod of his head. “It’s nothing compared to the library at Pemberley. If you like to read, that’s an astonishing place to do so.”

“Thank you.” Craig, his eyes glazed with disinterest, surprised the group. Tweek found his tone curious at first— so low and almost nasal, but deep and thrumming. It was the voice of a heartbeat. “It’s the work of many generations.”

“You’ve added much to it, yourself.” Mr. Black pointed out gracefully. Tweek felt his interest in this mystery of a man couldn’t pique any further. He opened his mouth, trying to steady himself with a deep breath, but Bebe cut in before he could speak.

“I should read more.” She was saying. She, too, had her attention only on one member of the ever-growing circle— and everyone was watching them with great interest. “But there’s always so much else to do.”

Beaming, Clyde nodded with enthusiasm. “That’s exactly how I feel.”

A glance across from him showed Tweek that Tucker had not softened one bit. Mr. Black was smiling fondly, and Butters was hardly keeping himself still for excitement for Bebe. But Craig didn’t seem to be listening— until his eyes shot down to meet Tweek’s. They were grass on a winter morning.

Blessedly, the man with the snowy glare was distracted by the entrance of others— and others Tweek recognized, to his great delight.

“You must be Mr. Donovan.” He heard Stan say with a generous bow. Another dance was starting up and the music was quick to drown out his mellow voice. He pointed to himself first, and then Kyle behind him. The redhead was already whispering in Wendy’s ear and his smile was obvious behind his hand. “Allow me to present myself, Mr. Marsh, and my friend Mr. Broflovski.”

“Everyone’s talking about it. Apparently they’re building barracks and everything.” Kyle was whispering hurriedly, hardly noticing the introduction. Butters also was leaning in to listen, eyes wide. “The militia will be here all winter!”

Clyde, blessedly, hadn’t noticed the slight and instead turned to Bebe. There was a moment of hesitation that Tweek found familiar, before the man was presenting his red-clad arm. “Miss Stevens, may I have the honor?”

Bebe move so quickly that Tweek could hardly make out her smile— but he knew it was there, and he heard her laughter like bells as the pair moved to the other side of the ballroom. He felt joy bubbling up in his own chest— Bebe was always contagious— but it died quickly when Tweek felt Mr. Tucker’s eyes on him again.

He was unreadable as he had been all night. It had only been hours, but still Tweek found it intensely frustrating. Even when the blond met his eyes, he didn’t flinch, didn’t look away. So Tweek swallowed and tried to bridge the gap between them.

“D-Do you dance, Mr. Tucker?” Tweek dared to ask. Craig’s stare turned into a glare within seconds, and Tweek did his best not to shiver.

Though his expression was frigid, Tweek was surprised to find that Tucker’s voice only held distance. “Not if I can help it,” he answered, and that was the end of that.

With a nervous nod, Tweek turned back to his friends— Kyle’s eyes bright as Butters questioned him animatedly.

“How do you even plan to meet them?” Butters’ cheeks were wide in expectation. The news of officers coming to Southerland Park worried Tweek more than excited him— what if it was a military coup? What if the French were to come here and invade? What if— agh! they all wanted to have dinner at Longbourn?

Tweek’s mental ramblings were interrupted by Wendy’s jovial voice, and she mimicked the actions that her words described: “It’s easy to meet them as a woman. Just drop a handkerchief in front of them and let them pick it up for you. Blush prettily, and then you’re introduced!”

The group laughed— even Mr. Black, on the other side of the circle, but Tweek found Mr. Tucker just rolling his eyes. His gaze travelled down Tucker’s navy coat and beyond his lean frame, out to the dance floor. There he could see both Bebe and Clyde jumping along to the lively violins. Both were flushed, with the thrill of embarrassment, and Tweek envied her for her fun.

When he returned his attention to the circle, Tweek found that Mr. Tucker had not let up at his game of staring. Instead, his brows had risen, as if Tweek were a tablet to translate. He shuddered under his gaze, and turned to Butters.

“Care for a c-cup of punch?” He asked his friend softly, leaning between Kyle and Wendy, who were now awkwardly hemming around Stan in the conversation. It seemed Stan wanted Wendy to be his when it was convenient— and it seemed convenient when the militia was to come to town. Awfully unfair, in Tweek’s mind, but his shaking hands reminded him of more pressing matters.

With a sunflower smile, Butters followed Tweek away from their friends and into the shadows of the edge of the hall. It was emptier here, populated by statuesque servants and their heavy trays. Tweek relieved one of his last two glasses and returned to Butters.

“I-I.” Tweek swallowed, not even sure if he should be confiding in his friend while they were still in the same room as the tall and dark man. “I k-keep catching Mr. T-Tucker staring at me.”

“I noticed too! That’s good, right? I think he might like ya!” Butters responded excitedly, his voice a little too loud. Tweek let out a nervous _gah!_ and then, as luck would have it, familiar shadows fell before them.

Tweek pulled Butters closer towards him, their wine glasses clinking together, and they stood behind the wide trunk of the pillar. The men were several steps away, thank god— distant enough for Tweek and Butters to seem casual, and close enough to hear.

Tweek recognized the voice of Mr. Black, charming but seemingly inefficacious: “Tucker, please, you must dance. I hate seeing you stand alone in such a stupid manner.”

“Seriously.” And there was Donovan’s voice, and the back of his coat. He sounded breathless— be it from dancing or Bebe’s influence, Tweek wasn’t yet certain. “I’ve never seen so many beautiful women in my life.”

“You’re dancing with the only handsome girl in the room.” And finally the third member of their cohort responded. His voice was monotone as ever, but if he listened closely, Tweek swore he could hear the whisper of teasing within the words.

Donovan, however, spoke with utmost sincerity. His eyes were glassy and grin so wide, on another, it would be almost unseemly. However, Clyde wore it with grace: “And she is the most beautiful creature I have ever beheld.”

“Really, Tucker, no one catches your eye?” Token teased. In the corner of his eye, he could see wild blond hair and shaking hands, and nodded to alert his friends to Tweek behind him. Honeydew eyes fell on the shorter man who seemed to be trying to divine something from the marble floor beneath him.

Lies fell easily from Tucker’s lips: “No one.”

“Don’t be bitter, Craig.” Donovan elbowed his taller friend in the ribs, harder than he meant to. Tucker shot a familiar glare to his friend, but the brown-haired man was already looking away— for Bebe again, most likely. “Just because I got to Miss Stevens first—”

“Craig isn’t interested in Miss Stevens.” Token cut off with a laugh, throwing his head back at his friend’s expense. Even the corner of Craig’s lips quirked up, cracking the veneer of impassivity. A smile suited him, truly, Tweek thought. He couldn’t help but wonder if he would ever be able to see that again.

Donovan was laughing now, also, and Tweek found his almost as charming as Bebe’s. Their happiness would be the envy of the county— and their friends, eternally teased: “Even still! Come, Tucker, I thought you had a thing for blondes.”

“Hm?” Craig feigned ignorance, disinterest. He dared to turn around only to find that vision in green once again— this time, hidden in the shadows of a pillar. This Tweek's tidepool eyes were bright as always, and Tucker thought he could drown in them. He clicked his tongue against his teeth, and pried his gaze away. “Are you talking about that twitchy one?”

At that description, Tweek’s wonder quickly turned to a despair, and he felt his coat go tight around his shoulders as his body cringed. Butters took his glass from his trembling hands, before wine could stain his sleeves or the crystal crashed against the floor. Tweek felt himself flush further from embarrassment, breath shortening _again_ , even as his friend pushed him to lean closer and listen.

Black and Donovan had been laughing conspiratorially— the way Wendy often laughed when she knew something that no one else did. Tucker seemed actually thoughtful for a moment, like unfamiliar thoughts had lodged themselves in his mind, and he couldn’t decide if he wanted to keep them or not.

“He’s striking. His eyes...” His voice was forgiving as he trailed off. Tweek tried to force himself to see the positive in the words— not simple, with Tucker’s enigmatic expression. Suddenly, he was shaking his head violently, and with that, he returned to the stone he was before: “Perfectly tolerable, I’ll say. But not handsome enough to tempt me.”

Heat pooled behind Tweek’s eyes and the wine in his stomach turned quickly sour. His breath was coming suddenly in short bursts. He tried to avoid Butters’ eyes, ignore his mumbled apologies, and focused only on his friend’s warm hands grasping his shoulders and the cold stone of the pillar behind him.

Tweek Tweak was not a prideful man. Perhaps that’s why it hurt so much to be _tolerable_ — it was as if Tucker had seen everything Tweek sees within himself, and had no qualms in pointing it out. This pain was one of embarrassment, and felt like a dinner fork being dragged down his skin.

“You better get back to Miss Stevens and enjoy her smiles. You’re wasting your time with me.” He could hear Tucker saying behind him. Donovan and Black had been shocked into silence, it seemed, and heavy footsteps heralded their exit.

“What an odious man!” Butters’ voice shocked Tweek back into the present. His posh presentation fell with his anger, but Tweek always found his friend’s country upbringing gave his cadence such a homey feel. “Just, um, ignore him, Tweekers. Truly it’d be more a misfortune if he liked ya.”

And just like that, Tweek felt his anger silenced, like a log in a dwindling fire. Butters’ outpouring of compassion dimmed the light— but when poked, Tweek knew the flames would burn bright again. He swallowed to regain his composure: “D-Don’t worry, Butters. I wouldn’t dance with him f-for half of D-Derbyshire.”

And without another word, and despite the other’s protestations, Tweek was dragging his friend onto the dance floor and into the middle of a dance. Bebe beamed at him, even as Tweek’s steps were stilted and off. She and Donovan seemed to have been dancing together most of the night, but with a wide grin Bebe easily shifted to being Tweek’s partner for the round, leaving Butters to a smiling Donovan.

The round only feels seconds long for how fun it was to twirl around the parquet floor. His shoes tapped a familiar rhythm and though Tweek felt less than graceful, he certainly was having fun. Tweek offered a deep bow to his darling dancing partner before following her off the floor and back to the wings.

Off to the side, next to the pillar that Tweek had caught his breath behind, was Mr. Tucker. He had watched the dance with a look of supreme boredom on his fine features. And the marble man only moved when Donovan grabbed him by the shoulder, dragging him to where the group had decided to rest and enjoy another cup of the sugar-sweet punch.

Donovan was the link between his friends and Bebe’s, standing across from the lady in red, and finding himself next to Tweek. The man was easy in his mannerisms and struck up conversation with the blond as if it were the most natural thing in the world.  

“Your friend Mr. Stotch is the most amusing young man.” Mr. Donovan began, nodding generously to Tweek. There’s a soft _oh shucks_ from next to the blond, and Tweek smiled with pride. Black called for a servant with a elegant wave of his hand, and all members of the group gratefully took the glasses of punch.

“He’s a dear friend. I adore h-him.” Tweek answered honestly, lips sweet from the drink. He spared a glance to his friend beside him him, Butters’ short hair wild after the last lively dance. His lips were taut in a smile but it became more honest once Tweek met his eyes.

“And, truly, he’s very handsome.” Donovan continued— though this seem directed more to the tall man next to him. Tucker remained impassive as ever, but Donovan’s smirk grew. Tweek flushed on Butters’ behalf.

“He’s the beauty of the county.” Bebe teased from Butters’ other side, now. She bumped her hip against Butters, who giggled, but her eyes still only cared for Donovan. “Do you remember when he was fifteen, and was courted by the cousin of an earl?”

“Oh, no.” Butters ducked his head in embarrassment, expression still pleasant out of expectation. Tweek watched his friend carefully, hiding behind his own drink. “That was so embarrassing!”

“We— oh, we being Mr. Tweak, of course, myself, Miss Testaburger and Mr’s. Broflovski and Marsh— we _all_ were certain he would have an offer at so young.” The rest of the group laughed good-naturedly at Bebe’s animated retellings. Even Tweek found amusement settling within his chest as he recalled what was years ago. “But his suitor turned out to be a coward.”

“At least he wrote me some n-nice poetry.” The story’s protagonist said with a roll of his eyes. Butters’ pale hands fell into soft fists— his gloves had disappeared in a dance, leaving his knuckles bare and clacking together. His tell, Tweek’s mind supplied as it caught up with his instincts, he’s uncomfortable. So despite what he felt was better judgement, Tweek cut in.

“And s-so ended the affection.” Though his stutter remained, Tweek’s smile grew when he realized he wasn’t shaking. He chalked it up to Clyde’s friendly smiles, and Butters being close, and the wine. The group’s giggles grew as Tweek continued: “I w-wonder who it was who discovered poetry’s power in dr-driving away love.”

“I thought poetry to be the food of love.” A mirthless voice cut in. When Tweek turned, he found that Mr. Tucker had his eyes trained on him already, as legible as soaked newsprint.

“Ah—” Tweek balked. There are those nerves he thought he left behind the pillar— but his wit, dry as Craig’s voice, still cut through. His blue eyes stared back daringly at the taller man. “W-well, everything nourishes what is already strong. But if— if the love be thin, I’m c-convinced one good sonnet will starve it away. Entirely.”

The circle had gone silent, all eyes watching the battle between Tweek and Craig— but the two men had their attention pinned only on each other. Mr. Tucker’s expression had thawed, only barely, and he stared at Tweek with surprise— and a glimmer of interest.

“So what do you recommend?” He asked lowly. Candlelight cast shadows beneath his high cheekbones and his enigmatic eyes. “To encourage affection.”

The vines of worry in Tweek’s chest were suddenly choked by a sense of thrill. He tried to keep his voice steady. “Oh, dancing, of course! Even if one’s p-partner is b— is barely tolerable.”

And he forced out a smile, nervous and shaky and dazzling to the onlookers. The circle was suddenly broken from their silence by Butters— the blond man barely concealed his laughter by his hands. With a nod, Tweek took his friend away from the group under the guise of getting more to drink. As he left, he swore he saw Mr. Black and Mr. Donovan doubled over at Mr. Tucker’s expense.

“Tweek, t-that was amazing!” Butters was saying. Tweek’s smile grew more genuine and pride flushed him, even paired with an anxious shame. Still, he couldn’t help laughing as Butters continued: “I bet he’s still back there, thinking about it!”

Tweek suppressed a shiver, and stared down at his still-shaking hands. The violins were singing again, and he grinned up at his friend. “Care to join me for the next dance, Mr. Stotch?”

“I would be honored, Mr. Tweak.” Butters replied with a giggle and a grasp of Tweek’s hands, pulling him out to the parquetry floor just in time for them to start with the rest of the bouncing room. Looking around, Tweek could see Bebe still dancing with Donovan, and he felt his heart swell at her brilliant expression. Wendy had dragged Kyle onto the floor as well, joining in the dance.

And in this moment, surrounded by his dancing friends and filled with violin-song, Tweek had never felt more alive.

At the edge of the dance floor, Tucker was watching.

 

**Author's Note:**

> please come scream with me on twitter @ [breadpoetsociet](https://twitter.com/breadpoetsociet) and tumblr @ [breadpoetsociety](https://breadpoetsociety.tumblr.com)


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